


Bad Day

by frances_the_red



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Canon-typical language, Chronic Illness, Chronic Pain, Fluff, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion to the Rescue, description of pain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-14 07:35:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28791804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frances_the_red/pseuds/frances_the_red
Summary: Geralt had learned to live with the chronic pain that ailed him for many years now. On most days he could press the constant ache in his bones to the back of his mind.Today wasn't one of them.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 64





	Bad Day

**Author's Note:**

> This is a prompt fill for an anon who was feeling down.   
> I do know very little about chronic pain. The only experience I could draw from are migraines and the horrible thing called Getting Old (TM).

When Geralt awoke, everything hurt.

He pressed his lips and teeth together to repress a groan. He was usually used to the chronic pain by now. Though healed by the magical Waters of the Brokilon Forest, the pain in his knee, hip and elbow never seemed to vanish completely. The constant cold in Kaer Morhen with his drafty walls and leaking roof was probably not the best place for this kind of ailment either. He thought about the hot steam of the Novigrad bathhouses and heaved himself into a sitting position.

When he took his first steps out of bed he resembled an old man: hip stiff, a limp in his step and his arm pressed into his side in a relieving posture, he felt every single one of his eighty-plus years. He rolled his shoulders and neck, trying to get rid of the tension and aches that had settled deep in his bones, but it was no use. He struggled to get into his clothes and slowly made his way down to the kitchens of the keep.

The rest of the winter inhabitants had already settled around the big table: Vesemir absentmindedly stirred his porridge while his nose was deep in a book, Eskel was cutting some fruit and vegetables into eatable bits to share with the horses and Lil’Bleater later, Jaskier occasionally took a sip from a steaming mug while writing in his notebook and Ciri was entertained by Coen and Lambert, who had somewhat of a contest going of who could fit more scrambled eggs into their mouth.

Everything was a bit too loud and a tad too bright. There suddenly was a troll behind his eyes, constantly hitting some part of his brain with a bat. Geralt tried to ignore it and carefully sat down, helping himself to the bards mug. The instant his hands wrapped around the warm cup of tea, he felt the stiffness in his hands slowly waning. He repressed a low groan and closed his eyes instead, treasuring the heat in his hands.

“Good morning, dear heart! And what a fine morning, indeed! The snow outside is still falling, you should see the big lovely flocks of white slowly floating to the ground. Never have I seen so soft a world buried deep under Mother Natures quiet quilt. I am composing some poetry to Lady Winters soft but cold touch as we speak. The glistening mountains, the frozen lakes. It’s all very romantic, isn’t it?”

“Mh.”

“Romantic my ass. You are not the one shoveling the white shit out of the way to get to the stables,” grumbled Lambert around a mouthful of eggs.

“We could build a snow man!” exclaimed Ciri, who might be old enough to be considered a young woman now, but always came back to her playful innocence after a few days in the keep.

“Mmh,” agreed Geralt halfheartedly.

Jaskier, the observant little bugger, had watched Geralt since he had sat down. His eyes had gone smaller and smaller while he had noticed Geralts tense posture, the way he had grabbed the mug like a life line. Somewhere along the many years on the Path together, the troubadour had learned all the nuances of his grunts. It was frustrating sometimes.

“Or maybe…” suggested Jaskier, his voice mild and low, slowly reaching out to lay a hand on Geralts bad knee. He pressed a thumb into a miracle point, that first hurt like a bitch but then gave way to blissful pain relief. Geralt couldn’t help the soft groan this time. The look Jaskier gave him was a mix of disappointment, frustration, concern and sympathy.

“Maybe you could help out Lambert with the snow and the stables so he could build a snowman with you afterward, princess. Coen, too. He builds magnificent things out of snow, I’ve been told. Geralt feels a bit under the weather and will take a day off.” Geralt threw a menacing look at the bard. “Jas-”-”He _will_ take the day off, or may suffer the consequences that is my recitation of all the twenty-eight horrible sonnets written by one Valdo Marx. May he suffer from a foot fungus,” added Jaskier in a vengeful mutter. Geralt must have hidden his condition poorly for Vesemir and Eskel, too were looking at him with suspicion now.

“A day off will do us all some good,” remarked Vesemir after a bit of awkward silence. “Let’s do the basics and then enjoy the day. This book is too good to be left alone for long. Lambert, stables. Eskel, the cattle. Coen, some more firewood from the shed if you please. Cirilla, kitchen duty. The faster you wash the dishes, the sooner you can frolic in this white mess.”

“What does the bard do?”, Lambert started to argue.

“The bard is a guest and will do as he pleases,” remarked said bard, while he tried to subtly help Geralt up without hurting the Witchers manly sensibilities. 

Without further ado Geralt was herded back into his room and pressed into the bed. There was some distinctive clicking when firestone went over firestone and within minutes, Jaskier had a flame going in the big round fire basket in the middle of the room. 

“I’ll be right back. Stay,” ordered Jaskier with all the authority of an Oxenfurt tutor. Geralt knew better by now than to disagree with him when he was like this. He closed his eyes and let the warmth seep into his aching bones. A nap would have been nice but the headache was persistent, it seemed. Geralt must have floated in a haze for a bit, for he only noticed Jaskiers return when a cold washcloth was pressed onto his eyes. The cold and darkness was a blessing. The troll behind his eyes was only halfheartedly swinging his bat around by now.

Geralt could hear Jaskier puttering around the room, trying to be as quiet as possible with whatever he was doing. An insistent voice inside his head wanted to send Jaskier away. To let nobody see this broken version of himself. But his bard was by far too stubborn and Geralt too starved for self-indulgence. Jaskier had also seen him in far worse conditions, worrying. Mother-henning over his Witcher seemed to soothe his nerves somehow. So Geralt let him. It was an odd symbiosis.

The door opened again, bringing in the smell of fresh air and crisp snow. “How is he?”, he heard Ciri whisper. There was no answer, which suggested that Jaskier had probably responded with one of his expressive looks. He knew those well. One eyebrow raised as if to say ‘what do you think?’, mouth in a ‘you see what I have to deal with?’ pout, his eyes caring and worried. Ciri snorted, then tiptoed to the bed. A blanket padded with sheepskin was spread upon him and then he could feel a cool kiss on his forehead. “Get well soon, Geralt. Lambert is shit in building snowmen. He put the sticks for the arms in inappropriate places.” Geralt smiled at that. Melitele, he loved that kid. He didn’t know how much time passed after Ciri left, but after a while he needed to move. He didn’t know how to position himself. Turning on his side was uncomfortable to his hip, lying on the back awkward for his arm. After some more rolling around, Jaskier pulled a stopper from a flask, demanding to “take that shirt of. Let’s do something about that shoulder of yours, shall we?”

“It’s the hip, mostly,” confessed the Witcher.

“The trousers, too, then.”

And that’s all there was to it. No awkward dancing around, stumbled words and blushing about. Jaskier always made this stuff so easy. Like it was the most natural thing in the world to press chamomille oil into scarred skin. As if this intimate touch was something Geralt received on the daily. When the musicians' fingers found the right spots in his neck, that connected to a nerve right down his arm, into his bad elbow and down to his little finger, Geralt groaned in bliss. He was too groggy to feel embarrassed.

Jaskier hummed quietly to himself, not caring the slightest about the humiliating whimpers or relieved gasps while he worked his way down Geralts body. The smell of chamomille was so familiar by now, the press of Jaskiers strong but nimble fingers on his thigh and ass hitting just the right spots to relieve the pain, that the feared White Wolf didn’t even protest anymore. He reveled in the ministrations, even. He felt tranquil. Cared for.

He lay there, boneless, while Jaskier put the blankets back on him, caressing a hand through Geralts long white hair.

“I am right back, dear heart. Try to nap a bit, will you?” So Geralt did, his chronic pain reduced to nothing more but a subsidiary ache for now.

When he awoke again, he smelled peppermint tea. Jaskier forced the whole mug down his throat, then slid behind Geralt on the bed, leaning on the head board while Geralts head rested on Jaskiers thighs.

“Are you comfortable, love?”

“Mh.”

And he was.

He should have been embarrassed. Humiliated. Instead he felt safe. Cherished.

“I am so sorry, my dear. I bullied Lambert into filling the bathtub but the well is frozen over. He wanted to throw a bomb in but thankfully Vesemir could avert what would have surely been a catastrophic outcome and certain destruction of the inner courtyard. Anyway, no bath for you. I am sorry, love.”

“Mh.” He couldn’t care less by now. The aches had finally subdued to a tolerable level, the headache was gone and his tense neck massaged away by Jaskiers right hand, while the left cascaded through long white hair, occasionally pressing fingertips into his scalp or on a spot behind his ears. 

Eskel came in sometime later, a carafe of mulled wine and some cut up apples and pears arranged on a platter in each hand. He smiled one of his shy half-smiles. He settled into bed right beside Geralt, just like old times when they were nothing but young squirts still learning how to hold a sword. There was silence for a bit except for the occasional crunching when Jaskier hand fed them with fruit.

“You must think me weak,” muffled Geralt, ashamed now that the unshakable bear of a man that was Eskel was there to see his plight.

“You never thought so of me,” answered Eskel, subconsciously massaging a phantom pain between his facial scars and ear away. 

“We all have bad days. Also, this is kind of nice. Your bard willing to change Witchers for a while?”

The Witchers eyes had closed, when one of Jaskiers hands had sneaked into Eskels hair as well. They must have looked ridiculous, like little wolf puppies, lying there, being petted by Jaskier, who looked down at them with caring and affection in his blue eyes.

“You Witchers with your stupid self-sacrificing martyrdom,” remarked Jaskier quietly. “One day I’ll lock you all into the Lettenhove mansion, where there is nothing but soft mattresses, hot baths and Est-Est and throw the key away.”

He stilled in his movements for a second. “Well, after we've dealt with the Siren, of course.”

Eskel looked up at that, bewildered. “There is a siren in your house?”

“Yes, well no, not exactly, but a very adamant and ferocious beast, nonetheless. My mother, the Countess de Lettenhove. Leaving a bunch of sexy Witchers in her care is probably not a good idea, now that her third husband passed away. She will bedazzle you with her wit and charm your breeches of before you know it.”

Eskel chuckled.

“That explains a lot,” murmured Geralt, a small half-smile on his face.

“What was that, love?”

“Nothing.”

**Author's Note:**

> A comment, maybe in form of an emoticon, would be much appreciated. They feed my muse. Thank you for reading! Leave your own prompt on [tumblr](https://00qtee.tumblr.com).


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